


until i see you again

by bleebug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: And More Angst, Angst, Gen, KnightRook, i understand if you don't want to be friends with me after this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 15:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15710061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleebug/pseuds/bleebug
Summary: How easy it would be to fall, just close his eyes, plunge into the water and inhale. How simple it would be to drown, to hope that he would see her again on the other side.





	until i see you again

That conniving witch—Alice remembered her face, even though they only met the once. She remembered her clearly, those thick gray locks and soulless eyes, because that was the very day a swirling, raging portal opened up in the center of her tower room and swallowed up her Papa. She could never forget the sound of the witch’s delicate, almost  _sweet_  laughter as she held Alice back with a vice-like grip, those cold fingers digging into her arms, all while Papa reached out for her, yelling her name. It’s the last thing she’d heard him say— _Alice, Alice_.

She was young then, and though she begged the witch to tell her where he went, to bring him back, all she received was a sinister grin and a carefree farewell. In a burst of ashy grey smoke, the witch vanished. It was as if Alice had merely been an afterthought, just collateral damage. Not even worth a revisit to gloat. Admittedly, she sometimes dreamed of exacting every manner of vengeance upon the wicked woman, but Papa had always told her never to be tempted by the dark draw of revenge; she never imagined she'd need to remember those lessons. And, alas, it was the last she ever saw of her.

It was seven long, lonely years later before she escaped her tower. Freedom was an odd feeling. Pleasant and surprising and amazing; also frightening and uncomfortable and so, so unfamiliar. But even free from her shackles, she wasn’t free from pain. Years of exploring,  _searching_ , yielded no news of her father. She knew since childhood that there were many realms from the stories Papa would tell. Neverland he spoke of quite often, but if the mermaids she’d befriended were to be believed, Captain Hook had not been seen in that realm for decades.

It’s funny; time seemed to move so slowly in that tower. Each day felt longer than the one before. But outside, with no walls keeping her in, the passage of time just went by so quickly. Every birthday felt like a surprise. Milestones passed like pages in a book.

Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. Oh, she liked thirty. She met a lovely woman at thirty—golden hair plaited over her shoulder, determined eyes, feminine curves hidden under worn leather and a forest green cloak. The days passed all the same, but that gaping hole in her heart left by her Papa’s absence began to fill again, this time with new love. Thirty-five passed. At thirty-six, she and the woman who became her wife found a young orphan stealing from a dockside vendor. He’d been caught, and the vendor intended to hurt the boy for his transgression, but Alice would not stand for it. No child should be punished for wanting food in their belly. Less than a year later, he called them his mothers and they called him son.

Forty. Fifty. Fifty was a hard year. Their son had gone off to marry his own love, and it was around that time when Alice realized she hadn’t been actively searching for Papa in near a decade. It isn’t that she meant to stop; she’d just had so much  _life_  getting in the way. Her dear wife, Robin, suggested they move out of their cozy little home and take to the seas—there was time yet to go on new adventures, and Robin still supported her lifelong quest to be reunited with her Papa. With no hesitation, she agreed. Home could be anywhere, with her wife by her side.

Sixty. One night, staring out into the seemingly endless sea, moonlight gently reflecting and rocking over the waves, Alice began to believe,  _really believe_ , for the first time in her life, that perhaps the reason she’d never heard of Papa’s whereabouts, why she could never find him in all those years, was because he was dead. Even if he’d survived many years ago, there was little hope he’d still be alive now. She was almost ashamed of her own naivety. How had she been so sure all those years that he was still out there, fighting to get to her, missing her, searching for her the same way she searched for him?

Sixty-five. The sea was their home no longer. Oh, the ocean still called to her, she still needed the waves to lull her to sleep at night, but it was just too hard to keep up with it all. Robin had taken ill a few times, and that was that; Alice demanded they move to a seaside cottage in the little town near where she’d grown up, not so far from a healer. Their son visited often with his children, and though it was a bittersweet realization, Alice accepted that this family, the one she’d built, was the only she’d have before her own passing. She would have to greet Papa in the afterlife, share with him stories of her long life, the way he used to tell her when she was a child.

Oh, she had so, so many things to tell him.

Seventy. Robin passed away a year before. Alice was sure she’d die of a broken heart, but somehow she kept on. It was probably those visits from her family. A great-grandchild, just born a month after her wife’s passing, bore her name—and though he looked nothing like his namesake, Alice was pleased all the same to know there was another wonderful Robin in the world. It put her at ease. Life goes on. Her family would go on without her, just as she went on without Papa. They’d miss her, but they’d make it, and that’s what any parent would want.

She neared seventy-three when her health began to decline. Her mind was still sharp as ever, but she could feel her body losing strength. Eating became a chore, and after collapsing for the second time, her son sent for the healer. She was withering, every day feeling her vitality seep away just a little bit more. There was no question about it; she’d be with Robin again soon, and her dear Papa.

\---♘♜---

Nothing in his hundreds of years had ever caused him more pain than seeing that witch hold his daughter as he felt himself losing the battle against the force of the portal. He could say nothing but her name, over and over, as he was pulled from their world and the life he knew. His grip wasn’t strong enough, and in a split second he was tumbling through broken planks, and roughly landing on a heap of rubble. A stone beneath his head knocked him unconscious, and when he finally awoke hours later, he was staring up at a grey, dreary sky.

His body was sore, his heart more so. He had to find out where he was and how to get home. Wherever he was, he’d surely be able to find someone with a magic bean, no matter what price he’d have to pay for it. Alice was all alone, possibly at the mercy of Gothel, scared and in need of help.

After struggling to find space to stand, crawling over ruins, losing his footing several times, he came to the edge of a half-pulverized floor. He hauled himself up, took some deep breaths, and then, in a matter of seconds, his entire world came crashing down.

Over there, a mantle above a fireplace. And there, a wooden table with two chairs toppled on their sides. A bed at the far end. Trinkets, markings on the walls. All familiar. All his. All hers.

This was their home.

But it was wrong. All wrong. Everything destroyed or falling apart; layers of dust and the scent of mildew clinging to the remaining books on the shelf; thick vines of ivy plants, lush and green, crawling over and through the stonework.

What the hell had happened? Where was Alice? Where was Gothel? How did he end up here and what did it all mean?

It was too much, so he focused on the one thing that mattered: Alice. He had to find her, to save her.

It took near an hour to crawl down the side of the tower, stone bricks crumbling beneath his weight and vines breaking off as he grasped them. The building had become... decrepit. It was as if time had left it behind, left it to wither and decay.

A small, niggling whisper in the back of his mind told him,  _No, not ‘as if’ time has passed..._ But he closed off the thought immediately. There was no way. It wasn’t possible.

Even the path to town had changed. Once past the edge of the forest, the dirt road was wider than usual—wider than it had been two weeks ago when he’d gone to get fruit from the market. He’d made fresh jam with Alice’s assistance, and for three days straight it’s all she would eat.

The closer he got to town, the deeper the pit in his stomach sank.

He crossed over the cobblestone bridge and into the market, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face.  _Anyone_ , he thought.  _Please_. But the further he went, the more he began to realize that they were all new faces, and new shops, new vendors in the streets. It didn’t help with a glimpse into the bakery he frequented, a peek into the old tailor’s, a tilt of his head at the sign ‘ _Rafter Brothers’ Pies’_ where just weeks ago it said ‘ _Madame Moreau’s Patisserie.’_

His legs felt heavy. Each step filled him with more dread.

Hours, he wandered about, almost aimlessly. Because, in truth, those whispers in the back of his mind became louder and louder, harder to ignore, and whereas he’d originally wanted to run to his daughter as quickly as possible, now he was afraid of what he’d find at the end of that journey home.

 _A gravestone?_  

The thought came up before he could stop it. And right there, in the middle of the street, his heart seized in his chest. He pressed his fingers there against the painful hammering, shaking his head and breathing roughly through his nose as he tried to quell the panic.  _No. No, no, please._

“Oh, my word. Mister Jones, that can’t be you, can it?”

His head whipped around, and he came face to face with an old woman, hair short and gray, curled around her ears. Her brown eyes were a bit sunken and her skin marked with deep lines. On the crook of her elbow hung a basket full of groceries, and her shoulders were wrapped in a light blue shawl.

“I... that’s me. Killian Jones. I’m- I’m sorry, who are you?”

She smiled warmly, her cheeks rounding. “My dear, you haven’t aged a day. I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me, old as I am. I was just a young girl when you used to come by my father’s flower shop. Do you remember? Every few weeks you’d get fresh flowers. Oh, I fancied you very much, and I think you knew. My father was so embarrassed, but I asked to make your bouquets and you let me choose every last flower you took home. They weren’t the most beautiful bouquets, but you never had a bad word to say of them, and you demanded to pay full price.”

 _No,_ he thought again, helplessly.

“Angie?”

Angie was a few years younger than Alice, and he’d seen her the last time he went to town. She was a little girl, hair in messy pigtails, dirt always clinging to the hem of her skirts. He liked her; wished that he could bring Alice to town and that they’d be friends, get into trouble together.

“You do remember! Oh, how delightful. I was sure you’d have forgotten.”

“How could I?” he asked somberly, with a forced smile. “I always... I pulled a flower from my bouquet and put it in your hair.”

“Oh, you did, didn’t you? My, I’d forgotten that. We always wondered what had happened to you, you know. Father thought you might have met someone and moved away, but when Miss Alice came to town a few years later, we knew that wasn’t-”

“Alice?” Just her name, just hearing it spoken from another person, was enough to crush him with the weight of reality. He grasped Angie’s hand in his. “What about Alice? Was she here? Is she... god, is she...?”

Her eyes widened in recognition, and she smiled dimly. He could feel his eyes prickling.

“You... don’t know anything, do you? She came here years after you disappeared, went on about a witch sending you away. Half the town thought she was a madwoman.” His grip on her hand eased, and if possible, his heart felt even more like lead than before. “She left not long thereafter, only returned when she was too old to keep on searching.”

“Angie, please... is she... is she here now? Is she... gone?”

“Oh, Mister Jones... I don’t know how to tell you this, but Miss Alice has been bedridden for weeks. The healer says she’s not long for this world.”

“ _Where_?” he demanded, tears threatening to spill over. “Tell me where she is.”

Angie squeezed his hand and patted his cheek affectionately before giving brief directions to her home.

He’d never run so fast in his life.

There it was, between forest and beach, a humble little home. Wisps of smoke coursed up from the chimney and Killian wiped furiously at his cheeks when he got close enough to scale the steps of the porch. He curled his hand into a fist and hovered it inches from the door.

There were sounds coming from inside. Voices.

God, but he was afraid. How was he supposed to do this? How could he walk in this door and see his baby girl after missing a lifetime of memories?

Would she despise him for leaving her all alone? Would she… even remember him?

He swallowed, hoping to get rid of the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go down. _He couldn’t make it go down_.

Twice, he knocked, hesitantly. Then he took shallow breaths, listening to the soft footsteps creep towards the door.

“Uh, hello, sir.” The man who greeted him was unfamiliar. He looked to be in his forties, fifties perhaps, with a handsome face and grey streaks in his dark hair. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Killian tried to speak, but his chest felt too tight. It took him a few moments.

“Alice. Alice Jones? I… please.”

The man scrunched his brow in concern, then his gaze fell upon Killian’s hook and his eyes widened.

“You’re… you can’t be,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’re not… Mum’s father?”

Killian’s heart stuttered. “’Mum’?”

Alice had a son?

“Simon,” he said, holding out his hand and offering a strained smile. Killian nervously grasped his hand, getting a reassuring squeeze instead of a formal shake. “It… it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He wished he could say the same. Instead, all he felt was helpless. His Alice was only ten years old, her whole life ahead of her, not even old enough to call herself a young woman—just a little girl with big dreams and a big heart, relying upon her Papa for everything.

“You came to see her, I imagine,” Simon went on, opening the door. “Come in. I’ll take you to her.”

He didn’t like feeling like an outsider being _allowed_ to come inside to see his daughter, but that’s what he was. It had been a lifetime since she’d seen him. Perhaps all he was now was a stranger.

He followed Simon, briefly glancing around the living area where others were gathered. A few women, a young man, a teenager, a toddler, and a wee babe sleeping in a bassinet next to the hearth.

Was this Alice’s family? Her children and grandchildren? Great-grandchildren?

Down the hallway they went, and Simon knocked once, quietly, against a great wooden door, before opening it.

“Martha, come, dear. There’s someone here who needs a moment alone with your grandmother.” Killian stood silently away from the doorway, clenching his fist to keep it from shaking. A young lady with a belly round with child exited the room, glancing curiously at him as she passed, but not greeting him. Simon patted him on the shoulder. “She’s just inside. Still sleeping, I think, but take as much time as you need.”

With that, he turned and left Killian alone, just outside the threshold into Alice’s room.

Stepping foot inside the small, homey bedroom felt more like plunging into dark, turbulent waters, not knowing which way’s up, the cold seeping through skin and bone.

There she was, hands delicately crossed over her stomach, curly wisps of white hair spread out over a lace-trimmed pillow. A sky blue quilt was tucked neatly beneath her arms and over her chest, the patchwork beautiful and clean.

If he didn’t know it was her, he wouldn’t recognize her for all the years passed. Her skin was thin and wrinkled, sunken a bit beneath her cheekbones. Beneath her closed eyes there were purplish bags, marks of exhaustion, or illness, or both.

Alice never slept in such a dainty, lady-like fashion; she was always sprawled across her bed, legs and arms sticking out from messy covers, blonde hair in her face. But that was his little girl. Now she was an old woman, feeble, years of life etched on her skin.

He couldn’t breathe.

The door creaked shut behind him as he moved to her bedside, his eyes hot with blurry tears. There was already a chair there, and he sank into it, watching her chest slowly rise and fall and her eyes flicker behind closed lids.

Everything hurt.

He gathered the will to lean forward, let his fingers brush over her cheek. Not even a day ago, he wiped a smear of jam from this cheek, rosy and plump with youth; now the color had gone from it and the skin clung to her bones.

Her eyes fluttered open and he froze, his chin trembling like a pitiful child, as her familiar blue eyes met his.

“Papa?”

Her voice was so different, raspy and uneven, but gods, it was hers still.

Choking on his sobs, he cradled her cheek and leaned his forehead down to hers.

“Starfish,” he said, strangled and full of distress.

“Oh, Papa,” she sighed, her voice hitching. “I missed you so very much.”

He couldn’t reply, just tilting his head to press a kiss to her hair and letting the tears fall. A weak, clammy hand gently patted his arm as his chest shook, each intake of breath stinging more than the last.

“Am I dead?”

He pulled away, fruitlessly wiping at his cheeks and nose with the back of his sleeve, and sniffling as more tears came. “No, Alice.”

He thumbed away a tear track on her temple and sat on the bed beside her, taking one of her hands in his.

“So Papa… you’re really here, aren’tcha? You look exactly the same as I remember… haven’t aged a day.” He drew her hand to his heart and shut his eyes, guilt washing over him—guilt he shouldn’t have to feel. “I looked for you…”

“I know, darling. I know you did. Papa’s sorry. So, so sorry…”

He sobbed, and Alice softly tsked.

“Don’t be sorry. Isn’t your fault.” She smiled then, a little watery but not a hint of resentment in her features, though it did nothing for his shame and regret.

“I held you in my arms just hours ago.” He drew her hand to his cheek and held it there, his heart tormented. “I swear it, just hours ago. We had toast and jam and tea, and your favorite Mr. Rabbit sat on the table.”

Alice’s brow creased with sorrow.

“I see... She sent you here, then, did she? To a time where I couldn’t reach you.”

“I’ve missed everything. You growing up, and getting out of that tower… I should have been there for you.”

“Don’t dwell on sad things, Papa… things that can’t be changed. I’ve missed you every day, you know, but you’re here now, yeah? Before my end in this world, you’ve found me.”

He wiped at his tears again, feeling no better. “Don’t say that.”

“What, that my life is at its end? Come now, just because you cheated death for a few hundred years doesn’t mean the rest of us can. Be reasonable, you silly man. Everyone passes on to the next life at some point.”

It was heartbreaking and infuriating that she spoke of her own death so flippantly. He wanted her to fight, to carry on, to throw a tantrum.

No. No, what he really wanted was for none of this to be happening, for it to all be a bad dream, for him to _wake up_ and find his little girl safe and sound and still a child in her bed.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” she said wearily, an apologetic smile on her face. “It’s not what I had in mind either. But… it’s not been such a bad life, you know. I went on adventures, saw many fantastical, magical things. I fell in _love_. Oh, Papa, you’d have _loved_ Robin. She had such a fierce and lovely soul. Had the heart of an adventurer, just like me. Just like you.”

Killian smiled through his tears, proud of Alice making her way on her own, and yet still so furious and heartbroken that he couldn’t be a part of it.

“Robin, huh? Tell me more.”

And she did. She shared the tale of their first meeting, of the strange turn of events that led a compassionate but foolish girl and a hunter wanting to prove her worth into the most unlikely of companions, on a mission to rescue, of all creatures, a misunderstood troll. She spoke of budding feelings and all the silly missteps they made along the way. And, wistfully, she reminisced about her wedding day, of the joy it brought her to swear her love for Robin for all eternity.

Killian listened on, feeling bittersweet as his daughter relayed her memories. He’d never wish anything less for her, though he couldn’t help but see it all in his mind’s eye—the missed conversations he could have had with her about life and love, the pride and affection he could have felt for the woman who held his daughter’s heart, the way he could have walked her down the aisle and danced with her on a day most important in her life.

But she’d already lived it all. He’d never get those moments with her back, not now. The past couldn't be changed, and even if it could, it would mean erasing all of these years of her life, relationships she'd built, family, and he had no right.

She went on for what seemed like hours. But whatever surge of energy she had upon reuniting with him waned, and eventually she could barely keep her eyes open, let alone speak of the past.

A good while after she fell asleep, he kissed her forehead and quietly left the room. Simon, Martha, and the others were all still there, chatting or reading, but the activity ceased when they saw him in the doorway.

Simon was the first to break the silence. He introduced Killian to his family. His wife, Candace, sat in a rocker; their eldest, Martha, and her little boy, Robin; Daniel, their son, and his wife Maria and baby William; and their youngest daughter, Elliot, barely fifteen.

Killian wasn’t sure what to do with it all. All of these names, these people… he didn’t know them. He didn’t know the people in Alice’s life. He’d been to every manner of enchanted, cursed, or otherwise magical place, seen sights to behold, been surrounded by myriads of foreign languages and customs, but never had he felt so helpless and unfamiliar anywhere, a true fish out of water.

It wasn’t long before he returned to Alice’s side. She slept more often than not, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be with her as long as he possibly could.

Every time she awoke, she’d revisit different parts of her history. Some stories were nicer than others. The ones where she sought him out weighed heavier on him. He tried not to let it show, but even in old age she was perceptive, and she’d gently stroke his hand to reassure him.

Over the next several days, he grew to know her family better. Little Robin and Will were charming, and he tried to find the energy to be playful with them as he had always been with Alice. It didn’t come easily.

Martha’s husband, he learned, had left her shortly after she’d learned of her most recent pregnancy. The man had simply found fatherhood too much, and the poor woman now had to raise the two children on her own. Daniel and Maria had their hands full with Will but were still kind and caring enough to try and convince stubborn Martha to stay with them. What’s another child or two to a family that already didn’t sleep?

Elliot seemed a shy and quiet girl, burying her face in a book most of the time. But, truly, all it took was a fellow reader to draw her out. She raved on and on of the entirely true (greatly, greatly exaggerated, Killian concluded) autobiography of an esteemed knight and his numerous triumphs and righteous deeds. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and despite himself, despite the ludicrousness and woes of his circumstances, he found himself genuinely enjoying her company.

Simon was a good father. Killian hoped that spoke volumes of Alice’s influence, and in an oddly self-serving way, he hoped it spoke well of his own influence on Alice as well.

The joyous mood could not carry on. The healer came to check in and it was as if everything came crashing down again. _Days_ , she said. Alice couldn’t keep down food, and was barely sipping at water. There wasn’t much time.

Ever since his arrival to the future, the sky had been dull and grey, but not a drop of moisture had fallen; which is why it felt like a mockery of his feelings when, the evening she passed quietly in her sleep, gently slipping away as he held her hand, the heavens opened and the small cottage was pelted by thunderous rain. It was loud and booming, mingling with the sounds of everyone’s cries.

Killian couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the others when he was too busy feeling his own hurt. He wailed without shame or care, grasping at her lifeless body and wishing upon every god that they would bring her back to him.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Such a cruel fate it was, making a father watch his child die, cursing a man to such an existence.

Ten years he had her, held her, taught her and watched her grow, and it only took ten days to lose her.

He ran. He left his shoes and coat and his daughter’s body, and ran out the door and into the downpour, screaming and cursing, watching the tumultuous waves crash against the sandy shore.

Without thinking, he walked out to the ocean. He drug his calves through the thick black water and let the waves batter his body, the salt sting his eyes. He let the chaos hit him and push him around.

How easy it would be to fall, just close his eyes, plunge into the water and inhale. How simple it would be to drown, to hope that he would see her again on the other side.

He’d already lived hundreds of years too long. He should have expired long ago, but yet here he stood, a survivor. Why?

Closing his eyes, he whimpered as his mind conjured up a perfect image of her, his little girl with paint on her forehead and jam on her cheeks, holding his face in both her hands and telling him, with fury on her tongue, “ _Papa, don’t you dare. I missed you for over sixty years. The least you could do is live and spend a few years missing me back.”_

He cursed again, loud, louder than the rain and thunder and waves, then turned around and sloshed his way back to shore. He threw himself on the wet sand and helplessly looked to the sky.

“Is this how it is? Am I destined to this? To lose everyone I love? My mother, my brother? My love?” He broke down, gasping for breath and curling around himself. “My Alice?”

God knows how long he sat there, drenched and shivering, wallowing in grief. He hadn’t recovered by the time he felt a hand on his shoulder, still pitifully weeping.

“Come inside. You’ll catch a cold.” Simon had a very calming demeanor and Killian wondered how he was keeping it together.

“Don’t bloody care.”

“Please. Mum would be cross with me if I left you out here.”

 _She’d be cross with me for not listening to you_ , Killian thought. And just like that, he relented. Simon helped get him on his feet and he wiped at his face as they walked back to the small, homey cottage where his daughter once lived.

He didn’t speak to anyone, simply accepted the rags to dry off with and went down the hall, back to Alice’s room, tracking water and sand in his wake.

If he paid no mind to how still she was, he could imagine she was just sleeping, as she had been most of the last week. He tossed a rag over his wet head and slumped in the chair beside her. It wasn’t numbness he was feeling, but he’d lost the will to cry. His heart felt as empty as a drum.

Alone and unable to think, he sat there until he was almost dry, just staring at her—memorizing every wrinkle on her face and hands and every hair on her head. She wasn’t quite smiling, but the look on her face was serene, peaceful.

He was afraid to touch her. In his memories she was warm, always warm, and he didn’t want to know how cold she was now.

“Mister- um, Ki- great grand- um…”

Elliot’s voice brought him out of his head, and he turned to the doorway. He could’ve smiled at how the girl still couldn’t figure out how to address him, but he wasn’t ready for that yet.

“You can call me whatever you like.”

“Oh, okay then, um. Gr… Gramps?”

Oh, that one did make him smile, however briefly.

“Yes, Elliot?”

“Papa’d like your assistance with funeral preparations… only if you’re up for it, of course.”

Swallowing and pulling the barely-damp rag from his head, he nodded and Elliot disappeared down the hall.

He gave himself a few more minutes with Alice before standing. Unable to stop himself, he leaned down to kiss her temple, whispering one last goodbye, one last _I love you_ , and then left the room.

\---♘♜---

Though he helped set up, he didn’t attend the funeral. He couldn’t stand around, greeting dozens of people he’d never met, introducing himself again and again and being forced to explain how he knew her. He couldn’t watch as they closed her in her box and buried her in the ground next to her wife. He couldn’t listen as everyone shared memories of her that he wasn’t there for. He couldn’t do any of it.

Instead, he just sat on the beach, staring out into the sea and nursing a bottle of rum. It was sweeter than he remembered and it kicked harder. He’d barely touched the stuff since Alice was born, not wanting to be a negative influence on her, but he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t yearned for the burn of alcohol on his tongue on more than one occasion.

There wasn’t much reason now not to allow himself the indulgence.

In the time that he sat there, it had grown increasingly darker under the still overcast sky, and he’d been generous enough with his drink to stay cloudy, though not enough to get well and truly drunk. It was good he hadn’t. Elliot plodded through the sand in her bare feet and sat beside him.

“The service was nice,” she said, unprompted. “People said lots of nice things about her, and we sent her off with a sweet song.”

He nodded and kept his eye on the sky where it met the sea. “Good.”

“Papa said we’re stayin’ a few more days. Gonna discuss her last will. Seems she wrote it a few years back, when Nan died. I guess she was readyin’ herself to go follow her.” He just nodded again, and took another swig of rum. “Can I have some?”

His head lolled to the side and he raised a heavy brow at her earnest expression.

“Rum?”

“Yeah.”

“I doubt your father would appreciate that.”

“Just a sip?” she asked, scooting closer, staring at the bottle like she wanted to just take it.

It made him chuckle. “You won’t like it.”

“Why not? _You_ like it, yeah?”

He handed her the bottle and watched her tilt the bottleneck to her lips. She coughed and cringed pitifully, looking affronted as she shoved the bottle back in his hand, and he just smiled, amused.

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s some poison, is what that is. You shouldn’t be drinkin’ it, either.”

“Aye. I shouldn’t.” After one more quick drink, he chucked the bottle into the shallow waters, feeling strangely defiant. “It was the cheap stuff, anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while, but Elliot could only keep her attention on making tiny swirls in the sand with her finger for so long. She looked at his stiff, stoic expression and knocked her knee against his.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“Revenge,” he said without hesitation. The answer seemed to shock her.

“Revenge? On the person who separated you and Gran?” He nodded and she frowned and poked a hole in the sand. “Gran used to say that an eye for an eye makes the world go blind.”

“A very wise lesson,” he mused. “I was less thinking of how to exact revenge, and more contemplating the concept of it. See, I spent most of my life seeking vengeance for someone I loved. It changes a person. Makes them darker and more spiteful, cruel even. I imagine I carried out a great many acts that left others seeking vengeance upon me, as well, and yet I live. I wonder if any of them are still alive now, still searching for me, hoping to end me and believing it will make them feel less empty and angry.

“I know it wouldn’t. Not for them, not for me. And yet even now I still feel the pull of darkness, beckoning me back, calling for that witch’s head...” He missed the bottle and wished he hadn’t thrown it away so soon. “At least when I had Alice, I felt like I could keep myself afloat. Now… I’m not so sure. I’m an outsider here. I just feel… disconnected. From everything. From myself, even.”

Elliot leaned her head on his shoulder, patting his arm gently.

“You know, Gran’s the reason I love books so much,” she began, and he wondered at her change in subject. “When she and Nan would come to visit, she’d bring just _heaps_ of books from all over. I always loved stories with complicated heroes, the ones that don’t know they’re heroes ‘til the end? They always seemed more real to me. Maybe that’s ‘cause those were Gran’s favorite stories, too. Reminded her of you, I think. So if you think about it… you’re not disconnected at all. You’re not a stranger. You’re exactly where you belong, with your family.”

Tears welled unwittingly in his eyes, and he reached over to ruffle her hair.

“Anyone ever tell you how smart you are?”

She shrugged. “It comes up sometimes.”

Not for the first time, he wondered if Elliot was at all what Alice was like at that age. He had nothing to compare it to. He’d never known his daughter as a teenager, but he allowed himself to close his eyes, and pretend the gentle weight of Elliot on his shoulder and the wispy hairs blown against his cheek from the wind were Alice’s, and that this is what it was like to be out in the world, by the ocean, with his girl.

And if he let a few more tears fall for what could have been, well, who was keeping count?

\---♘♜---

A locked chest in Alice’s wardrobe contained a myriad of old paintings and sketches, notes and letters, small trinkets, clothes, worn bedding. It was much of her childhood, and Killian wept when he found them. They were memories, shared memories—a lifetime ago for his deceased child, and for him, so recent that he could recall the songs she was singing while she painted, or the scent of the burning candles on their mantle.

He grabbed the woven blanket he bought her last year and buried his face in it. There was a bitter layer of dust, but beneath it, it smelled like her and it smelled like home.

\---♘♜---

He stayed.

A few weeks went by and Martha gave birth to a healthy baby girl. To no one’s surprise, she named her Alice.

“She looks like her, don’t you think?” Martha said, cradling her baby daughter in her arms as her son, Robin, slept beside her. “I know there’s no shared blood, but… but she looks like her.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed, though there was not even a shred of resemblance. “She does.”

“Both children named after the two strongest people I’ve ever known. I just hope they get even an ounce of Nan and Gran’s spirit.”

Killian brushed his fingers over Alice’s dark tuft of hair, remembering the first time he held his own child.

“I have no doubt they will.”

\---♘♜---

Weeks became months, and months became years. Killian took up residence in that cozy cottage by the sea, where he felt closest to her. He hung her old artwork on the walls, but otherwise didn’t change much. The family visited, and he spent a good deal of time helping with the children.

Elliot grew into a fine young lady, setting her sights on the seas with a spark of adventure in her eyes that he easily recognized. She wanted to be a writer, she told him, and needed the inspiration that travel would gift her. He waved farewell to her when she was nineteen, as she sailed away. She sent letters, and parcels bearing new novels she’d found, or drafts of chapters she wrote and wished for his input on. They were lovely stories, and he felt no small amount of pride.

Martha found happiness in motherhood and new love. A handful of years later, she’d settled down with a beautiful tavern owner, a quick-witted but kind-hearted woman who reminded Killian of a certain lass he once loved. Truly, the two were quite a match, but he felt a bit slighted once it seemed they didn’t need him around as much.

Daniel and Maria he saw far less frequently. They had busy lives and had moved to a small dwelling in the city, in the center of all the hustle and bustle. Killian visited them on occasion, but it was a far ride to the city and he’d grown accustomed to his little spot by the sea. Leaving it felt like he was leaving her, even just for a while.

Though he had his dalliances, he never could find it in himself to love again, or to try and settle with anyone and have another child. Doing so would feel much like a betrayal—if not to those long gone, then at least to himself.

He thought about the witch, too, from time to time. He wondered if she was still out there somewhere, still basking in her hatred, or if she’d had her comeuppance. Or, indeed, maybe being lost in her own darkness _had_ been her punishment. If he ever saw her again, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. In a moment of raw emotion, would he attempt to destroy her? Would he find it in himself to forgive her?

He would never find out.

\---♘♜---

It was fourteen years, nearly to the day, since Alice’s death. Killian’s hair had greyed since then, and he had a bit more weight beneath his belt, but he had done all right for himself, all things considered. Admittedly, he wasn’t a shining example of happiness, and he felt lonely even when not alone, but he survived. And he missed her, every day, just as she had missed him.

Nothing felt off about this day, no sense of foreboding or strange chill in the air. There were no whispers in the wind or curious prickles on the back of his neck. It was entirely average, unremarkable. In fact, the only difference in his routine was that on this day, when the sun was setting and his chest felt a bit hollow, he decided to walk down the path towards the remnants of the home he once shared with his daughter, that sad tower, empty and abandoned.

He’d only gone there a few times over the years. It never made him feel better, only filled him with a deeper longing for the past, but for some reason he couldn’t fight the pull of nostalgia.

But he never made it. By happenstance, his little journey down the road to his memories sent him straight into the clutches of a band of thieves. Twelve of them, at least, and young, too; the oldest of them looked barely in his mid-twenties. They reminded him a bit of the Lost Boys, youthful faces curled into wicked snarls, as if someone older, with more years of darkness, had taken over their bodies. There was no rhyme or reason to it, surely nothing destined about it, but all the same, when they drew their blades and demanded he give up everything he had, he felt like it was fate.

 _No_ was not the answer they wanted to hear.

Let it not be said that Killian Jones didn't put up a fight. He drew his sword from its sheath, and let his hook glint in the moonlight, and that's when they charged. With no intention to kill these misguided lads, and with age and lack of practice against him, it was a short time before he was overpowered. One or two, he could have defeated; not a dozen at once.

A sharp blade pierced his side, another his stomach, and they ripped his coin purse from his coat as he sank to the ground. They ran, leaving him to die in solitude. It was late, already dark. No one would happen across him at least until morning. His hot blood was already pooling around him. There was no surviving this time.

He held his hand over one of his wounds and felt the life leave him, and he smiled, finding a morbid sort of humor in it all.

He thought about Elliot and the books she’d written, and the ones he would never get to read. He thought of Simon and Candace, and how they would fret over whether to bury him in the ground next to Alice or bury him at sea. He thought of Daniel and Maria, and the still-growing litter of children they were raising in the city. He thought of Martha and her wife, and the long conversations they shared with him of politics and society, and of Robin’s musical talent and young Alice’s dreams of becoming a healer.

It hadn’t been long they’d been a family, but he cherished it nonetheless.

Mostly, he thought about the people he’d missed for so long, and how, if he were lucky, he would see them all again very soon.

“I’m coming, Starfish,” he whispered into the night. “And I have so, so much to tell you.”


End file.
